Ruthless Captor: A Mafia Romance (Corrupt Minds Book 3)

by Camille Alexander

  Ruthless Captor

  A Mafia Romance

  Corrupt Minds Book 3

  Camille Alexander

  © Copyright 2020 - All rights reserved.

  It is not legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this document in either electronic means or printed format. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited, and any storage of this document is not allowed unless with written permission from the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events, or locations is purely coincidental.

  Also By Camille Alexander

  THE CORRUPT MINDS SERIES

  Forbidden Desires (Book 1)

  Hidden Deceit (Book 2)

  Ruthless Captor (Book 3)

  THE OBSESSED BILLIONAIRE ROMANCE SERIES

  The Brokerage - Book 1

  The Catacombs - Book 2

  The Catacombs II - Book 3

  The Catacombs III - Book 4

  The Sentinel - Book 5

  THE OBSESSED BILLIONAIRE BOX SET

  CONTACT CAMILLE

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  Facebook Page

  Amazon Author Page

  Goodreads

  BookBub

  Table of Contents

  Ruthless Captor

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Epilogue: One Year Later

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  Obsessed Billionaire Sneak Peek

  More from Camille Alexander

  Chapter One

  GIANI DE LUCA

  I woke up in a puddle of sweat. It was winter, so the heat wasn’t the problem. I was shaken after a familiar nightmare, nothing too diverse from my usual, but unsettlingly realistic. A young man in my late twenties, I was a fearless one too—when I was awake. I’d acquired plenty of street smarts from years of going it alone and no compunction about dusting those who stood in my way or threatened my capo dei capi, Dominick Coli.

  Skilled in assassinating—a quality that came in handy in my mob world—made me the perfect candidate for the job. It was precision or concrete shoes, and I was never a fan of the ocean—especially not the one adjacent to the docks where the various “Families” conducted their unsavory business deals.

  The clock showed five-thirty am, a dark and chilly time in the dead of a Chicago winter. I switched on my lamp and tapped the barometer on my nightstand. After a few attempts at changing the level, the mercury stayed put. Another dire day of rain and sleet. Fucking fantastic. That would make kicking ass so much more fun.

  There was no point in lying around haunted by the memory of my nightmares, so I wrapped up in a warm blanket and shilly-shallied my way to the kitchen. A beautiful bank of snow transformed an ordinarily colorful neighborhood into a winter wonderland. Living on the outskirts of Chicago was a definite move in the right direction; it signaled my “arrival” as an important part of the organization.

  My erstwhile family shoebox without dependable heating, largely ignored by a decrepit, clueless landlord circling the drain, was a distant memory. Working for the Coli Family was a plus for any up and coming foot soldier. I did have a slight advantage in that the family had taken me in when I was in my early teens after my father was assassinated by a rogue member of a rival family. Truth be told, my father was never a boy scout, but gunning him down in front of his wife and kid was cruel and unnecessary. I never did find out why he was killed, not that it would have mattered, but his absence had a big impact on my life. He was dead and life went on.

  My mother and I survived with the scraps of money she made working a dead-end job and the pennies I’d scraped together doing a paper route and hustling on the streets. No one hid a coin under a cup as well as I did, and nobody was beaten up as often as I was, either. My mother had all but given up. She and my father were a couple since high school, and living without him was more challenging than anyone anticipated. She was used to having a man in her life who cared and provided for her. Going it alone was not a skill she’d acquired.

  What followed was a succession of deadbeats moving in and out of our lives. After a year or two of coming to blows with her boyfriend at the time, I left. She moved from one loser to the next until the inevitable drug pusher found her. Drugs became her escape, and not long after she was hooked on China White, the day came when she shot up just too much and died of an overdose. I was numb at the time—the truth of the matter was that she was a stranger. I took care of number one, the only life I had a semblance of control over. Now, a man of means with a reputation for killing on command, I was living the high life.

  The kitchen floor was numbingly cold, so I shuffled on the edge of the blanket to the coffee machine. I could survive anywhere if I had my trusty Italian coffee machine with me—any Italian worth their salt would agree. The engine sprang to life as I put beans into the grinder, none of the bullshit ground coffee beans for me, thank you very much. That crap tasted like sawdust. It was coffee brewed from freshly going beans or forget about it!

  I switched on the TV to catch up on current events. It was important not to live with your head up your ass—knowledge was power. The old ways of communicating with fellow families and business moguls had become redundant. The way forward was watching stock market trends, keeping an eye on new developments, new casinos, and other business ventures the Mafia used to get the upper hand over competitors. The bush telegraph of old had gone the way of the dodo bird. It was replaced with social media and news channels, a much faster and more effective way of finding your enemy’s weak spot.

  I bought my apartment furnished. The real estate agent did a bang-up job finding me a three bedroomed pad with all the latest fashion trends and conveniences a bachelor needed to pull some fine pussy. I didn’t have a shortage in that department. Something about being a bad boy made the ladies swoon for my attention. I didn’t mind; it was one of the perks of my job. Vinny and I pulled our fair share of nymphomaniacs. Vinny was my best friend. We’d met soon after I joined the Coli organization. He was a decent guy, built like a brick shit house, tough as nails, and muscle to the members high up in the organization. He would often accompany me to the more “discreet” jobs, and no matter the situation, he had my back, as I had his.

  I made myself comfortable on the couch and sipped on a good cup of strong coffee. There was nothing new on the news reports. It was the same old shit: presenters bitching about the president and his useless party. Election time was near, and I’d had my fill of watching political mudslinging back and forth. As if there would ever be consensus on who would lead the country best. Everybody was an expert.

  I checked my watch: six-thirty. Time to shower and dress for the cold weather that would slap me around the chops as I made my way to Antonio’s Deli. The joint was Vinny’s and my usual Saturday morning breakfast hangout. We made it through a busy week, so there was plenty to catch up on. Vinny wore a leather trench coat wherever he went. I suspect he’d watched the Matrix trilogy one too many times, but it worked for him. Vinny liked to look like a badass. My approach was more subtle—a target was less intimidated and less likely to suspect a guy in je
ans and a pullover than a muscle man in a trench coat.

  After a piping hot shower, I selected my blending in “assassins uniform” for the occasion and left the apartment at eight. The deli was close enough to walk to on a sunny day, but the weather was crap, so I started up my Land Rover and waited for the ice on the windscreen to melt. The deli in downtown Chicago was always busy. Their breakfast bagel was a thing of beauty. Between Vinny and me, we’d eaten enough bagels over the years to put Antonio’s grandchildren through college. Today would be no different. The SUV started up first turn, unlike the oil spillers I used to drive. No smoke, no noisy engine, no stopping on the side of the road to fill up the radiator; it was bliss.

  I passed pedestrians, buses, and taxis, as Chicagoans rushed about doing their shopping for the week. Winter or summer, with a population just shy of three million, the city could never be described as a quiet place. Whatever the hour, the streets were abuzz with activity. The Italian population of Chicago was as healthy as it ever was. The Mafia ran matters from behind the scenes, the way it always was. The Coli Family was one of the original families in America. They were based mainly in Florida, but the family’s operations extended far and wide. The Chicago base was one of its strongholds.

  As with any organization, rival businesses vied for the privilege of knocking the giant fish off the top in the hopes of moving up in the rankings. Chicago was no different. The Pisano family was born out of insatiable hunger for power and prestige. The Colis and Pisanos were perpetually at loggerheads, and it was my job to ensure that wiseguys didn’t get any smart ideas about bumping off my employers or their families. It was a tough job, but I had the stomach, and the balls, for it.

  ***

  CELINA PISANO

  Viola and I joined my mother for a week in Milan. Mama was visiting her sister, and my best friend and I never missed an opportunity to shop til we dropped in the city where clothes were an artform, appreciated by connoisseurs. It was January, and even though Milan’s winters weren’t as cold as Chicago’s, it was still frosty. The Pisano name was well known on the Quadrilatero Della Moda, the street that boasted the most exclusive boutiques and fashion houses in the North Italian city.

  My aunt lived in an apartment in San Marco, a mecca of beautiful cobbled streets, old Renaissance architecture, and a plethora of bars, restaurants, clubs, and high-fashion boutiques. I was a first-generation American, but my family hailed from Italy. We’d visited our family often when I was growing up. Seeing my cousins and my grandparents was a rare treat, and I relished every moment. Now in my mid-twenties, the older members of our extended family had slowed down, and most of their days were spent enjoying lunch with friends and attending funerals. I swore I would never be old; even if I were ninety in the shade, I’d be all over the place traveling and sightseeing.

  Quadrilatero Della Moda was a curious combination of scents. The smell of homemade bread fresh from the oven, crisp Cannoli shells cooling on racks, freshly brewed Italian coffee, and expensive perfumes made Milan what it was—the city with heart in hand. It was boots season, and I had my eye on a pair of lace-up, knee-high, high-heeled boots in white leather, bejeweled with green stones, red hearts, and gold trim. The laces were an emerald green. They were the funkiest fashion accessory I’d ever seen; I simply had to have them. I’ll admit, Papa spoiled me rotten, but I worked hard to make him and my mother proud. I graduated in the top five of my class at the University of Chicago and landed an incredible job in marketing. The world was my oyster, and I was kicking ass and taking names.

  Viola was editor of a fashion magazine, which I was thrilled about; nothing like fashion week in Italy to get the juices going. I’d visit the most exclusive fashion houses in the fashion capitals of Europe and The States. A terrible job, but someone had to do it!

  Viola and I met in middle school. She, too, was the daughter of an Italian couple who had relocated from Italy, which gave us much in common. Our friendship became a close bond when we were at odds with the divas of high school. Her father was a property developer and her mother, a professor of European languages. Viola’s love for language and fashion were the key ingredients to her success. She worked hard in the office and out on the party scene. Being a gorgeous blonde with green eyes and an hourglass figure guaranteed that she never went home alone unless she wanted to. I kept men at a distance, was probably a little too fussy for my own good. Papa told me I deserve the best, and I believed him.

  My father was Capo of the Pisano family. Our family was high up in the mafia’s pecking order. My father had a head for business which he employed tirelessly in his quest to become the most successful man ever to hail from Italy. There was never peace in his world, a fact of life that I learned from a young age. I never did ask too many questions, and Papa never said much about it.

  Mama owned an art gallery. I couldn’t remember a time when she wasn’t either painting or sculpting. She was very talented, and after a few years of marriage, my father suggested that she start her own gallery. Mama was a strikingly, beautiful woman. My father told me stories of how he used to follow her around the streets of Milan, stalking her, but not in a freakish way, he insisted. Her family was very wealthy, old money, and my father a mere peasant with a dream of making his mark in the world. My mother’s parents weren’t exactly thrilled when she brought home my father. He tried his best to impress them, but he sucked when it came to the finer things in life. Mama didn’t care; she loved him, and a year after meeting, the two eloped and moved to America.

  For a long time, Mama’s parents refused to speak to either of them. Then, I came along, and in typical Italian fashion, the arrival of a baby signaled the end of a family feud. I was rather cute, though. I had my mother’s pitch black hair and my father’s dark brown eyes. I was a precious little nugget, irresistible to all, including my grandparents, who came to visit us in America. My father provided very well for his girls, and as the years passed, the Pisano name became synonymous with wealth and power.

  I was closer to my mother. My father was driven by ambition which kept him away from home most of the time. I knew my mother loved him, and I knew he loved us both. But we didn’t connect on a personal level. For years I would lie in my bed and listen as they argued over and over about the same thing. Papa wanted a son to carry on the Pisano name. He took out his frustration on my mother. She had many miscarriages and gave birth to a stillborn son. My father never forgave her for that, as if she had done it on purpose. Eventually, when Papa realized that there would be no Pisano male heir, he showered his obsession and expectations on me.

  I was more of an accomplishment to him than a daughter. He had a chip on his shoulder. He had a daughter and his rivals all had sons. I was a blow to his ego. Papa was a fierce man when it came to business. He didn’t hide the fact that he lived in an “eye for an eye” world—he was the master of his domain. Mama and I were window dressing.

  After I graduated, I moved out of my parent’s home. My mother was devastated; I suspected she would want me home with her forever, even after I was a grown woman with my own children. Being their only child made me the center of her world. Everything was done to ensure that I would never want for anything. Was I spoiled? Perhaps. Was I opinionated? Probably. Was I headstrong? Definitely. Was I used to getting my own way? And then some!

  Papa bought me a studio apartment with double volume ceilings in Forest Glen. Nothing but the best for his Pisano princess. They wanted me near them, just in case. I didn’t put up a fuss; it was nice to know Mama wasn’t too far away. The distance from them was far enough so I could live my own life, and close enough in case the shit hit the fan. Viola and I lived in the same apartment complex. Her father was the original developer, and he’d done a bang-up job. The place was beautiful and modern with Italian finishes and large windows so we could watch the city lights at night.

  Viola’s apartment was bright with Cuban art and décor, colorful, and busy. She visited the country when she was traveling and fe
ll in love with the feel of the multi-colored country. Our apartments were similar in size and style, but mine was decorated with a desert-inspired color palette. Rust, gold, bronze, olive green, dirty yellow, and slate gray threw in for good measure. My apartment was a mini rainforest; the irony of desert and forest in one place didn’t escape me, but I didn’t care. I loved plants—I wasn’t a crazed tree hugger who talked to my broccoli, but the greenery was essential to me.

  I loved pottering about in the kitchen. I was one of the few women my age who put together a mean dish just because I was in the mood. Cooking relaxed me and gave me an excuse to drink wine. Perhaps, that was why my food tasted so good, and maybe I was skunk drunk by the time the food was ready to be eaten. No matter, I had fun doing it, and my apron had the stains to prove it. But we were in Milan, and fine dining was calling. Who was I to argue?

  ***

  GIANI

  “Watch out girls, the sexy assassin is in the house. Come over here. I’ve got a table for us.” Vinny was in fine form. Saturday was his “me day,” the day when his team of muscle heads took over babysitting the rich and pedantic, and he and I broke loose from our busy routine to hit the town.

  “Hey, Vin. I see you grabbed the best spot.”

  “Damn right. We can see all the pussy from right here.” He laughed from his gut and slapped me on the shoulder.

  “Easy there, big guy. Pace yourself. At this rate, you’re gonna run out of stock.”

  “No fear of that. I’ll start again on page one of my little black book. Good to see you, Mio Amico. Are the troublemakers behaving themselves, or are you about to dust anyone I know?”

  Vinny said that part softly. We were careful not to talk about business where prying eyes and big ears lurked in shadowy corner booths. No government department anywhere had more snitches than the mob. Nothing was sacred. If the info got them drugs or money, they’d supply it in steady streams. Not that the info was always reliable; a desperate snitch was a loose cannon.